


Trailhead

by enemyfrigate



Series: Waypoints [7]
Category: Justified
Genre: Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, Decisions, Feelings, Fish, Hiking, Law Enforcement, M/M, Old Friends, Plans, Relationship(s), Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:18:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyfrigate/pseuds/enemyfrigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan goes hiking, talks to Winona, and feeds Bubba. Also, he has to make some decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trailhead

On Sunday, Raylan follows Tim halfway up a mountain. His feet hurt, and he spends most of the day wishing he could zip his jacket up higher than it actually goes, but he keeps his mouth shut. Tim promised him a reward if he kept the whining to a minimum, sure, but he finds himself appreciating the view, enjoying the way his body loosens up from a week of mostly sitting in chairs and cars. The smell of wet earth and old leaves bring back the good parts of his childhood, running around in the woods, and his sandwich tastes better than it ought, in the chill and fresh air.

He gets to spend a lot of time looking at Tim’s ass, too, when the trail upwards gets narrow, or someone’s coming down as they go up, when Raylan has to fall in line behind Tim, which is an excellent bonus.

Later that night, when they walk into Raylan’s motel room, Tim pushes him against the door and drops to his knees to suck him off. He gets Raylan’s jeans down, and boxers, too, and is nosing at the warm swell of Raylan’s cock without stopping for breath, in about 10 seconds flat.

Raylan’s new hiking boots might not be as well broken in as he’d like, but the return on his investment seems to be rolling in, he thinks, sinking his hands into Tim’s hair to cradle his head. By now, Tim’s an expert at getting him hard - he’s a real quick learner - and Raylan settles back against the door and lets him do all the work, until he’s coming down Tim’s throat.

Pretty good reward for going hiking on a gray, windy day when most people would stay indoors and watch college football.

Tim sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. Raylan gets hold of his jacket and drags him over to the bed so Tim is half sprawled back, half sitting, so Raylan can get down between his thighs and suck him hard. The bed doesn't give Tim much of a surface to push off and use Raylan’s mouth, so he settles for gripping the back of Raylan’s neck and muttering encouragement: _come on, that’s it, take it all_ , while Raylan sucks him fast and messy. Tim comes with a cut off _ahh_ , and goes boneless back on his elbows.

Raylan shoves off his knees and collapses onto the bed next to him. He considers taking a shower, but he’s comfortably tired, verging on boneless.

After a minute, Tim zips his pants, sits up, and drains the glass of water Raylan left on the bedside table. “I’ve got to go.”

Shit. That’s right. “Yeah, have fun in Canada.”

“Prisoner transport is always a party a minute.” Tim stretches.

“I seem to recall you’ve done pretty well out of it before.” That’s a good memory. Sometimes Raylan uses it when he’s reduced to just his hand, though he feels weird about telling Tim that.

“Yeah. The Miami Seaquarium was pretty cool.” Tim smirks, and gets off the bed.

Raylan gives him the finger. “Get out of here, asshole.”

“Back on Wednesday,” Tim says.

“Give me a ring if you hear anything about that forger,” Raylan says.

“Counterfeiter.”

“Whatever.” Raylan gets up and walks Tim to the door, all of six feet away, and kisses him goodnight. He’s rewarded with a slow smile, and then Raylan is locking up behind him.

 

Raylan wakes up Monday morning about two minutes before the alarm, and blinks. The day is obviously as sunny and clear as the weatherman had promised, outside the curtains, but the room is pretty damn dark. Like sleeping in a box.

He gets up, shaking off a creeping bad mood, and goes into the bathroom. No need to spend the day grumbling just because Tim won’t be back until tomorrow night. Raylan’s evenings are pretty boring, without someone to fool around with, and at work he’s used to operating with Tim by his side.

Somehow he’s got to get a fucking hobby.

He turns the shower up hot as it can go, and lets the spray get to work on the the slight aches in hamstrings and calves from yesterday’s expedition. He manages to get out the door without dwelling on much of anything, and he’s grateful.

Raylan checks his phone as he heads out to his car. One message: Winona wants to catch up. He doesn’t think he should call her, really, but he’s still got that reflex after six years of marriage. Lord knows, it’ll be nice to talk to someone he doesn’t work with, or know from work. He agrees to meet her, in the end, and tries not to spend any time regretting it.

When he gets into the office, Raylan hangs his hat up and then goes over to Tim’s desk to check on Bubba, in his temporary home in a giant pickle jar. Tim just got into his new place last week, and he barely has any furniture to put an aquarium on, so Bubba’s going to continue to be a guest of the USMS for awhile.

Someone - Raylan suspects Art - has added a decorative pink sandcastle to Bubba’s jar. Bubba is resting behind it, on the floor; Tim had explained that betta fish do that, and not to worry, but it still bothers Raylan. Tim had left him in charge of the fish, if _give him a few pellets if you think about it_ counts as being left in charge.

Bubba rises to the surface when Raylan leans in and peers close. Raylan, relieved, tips in three pellets of fish food.

Art hands him a few low priority files, and then Raylan has to sit quietly through a couple meetings with other agencies, where his input is not required and would only serve to get in the way of getting out of there as fast as possible. He’s relieved to escape from one interminable FBI briefing that seems to be on the schedule merely to give Agent Barkley an opportunity to one up Art, but since Art’s a big boy and can take care of himself, RAylan has no qualms about ducking out to take a phone call. The call turns out to be a tip on one of his open files, and hey, he should just run that down right away, shouldn’t he?.

He spends most of the day trudging around to various relatives and associates of wanted felons, bored. The information he gleans is shit; not enough to be really useful, and not so useless that he doesn’t need to make a note of it. A nuisance all around. He heads back to the office mid-afternoon and spends twenty minutes talking basketball with Rachel, and looks up the Vancouver weather once, just out of curiosity. Kind of hopes Tim will call with something work related to give himself something to do.

He’s glad to knock off at 5 p.m., and head out to meet Winona.

The hotel bar is a little fancy for Raylan’s tastes, and for Winona’s, too, but maybe she’s gone upscale to match the fancy house and wheeler dealer husband. Raylan can’t dislike a place that’ll sell him a drink, but it’s not a comfortable fit, and he suspects Winona wants him off balance.

When Winona walks in, Raylan thinks she still looks good, but it isn’t with the pang of loss he’d felt on first seeing her once he’d got back to Lexington.

“Hey,” she says, face a little drawn and tired, and hitches herself up onto the barstool next to him. She doesn’t try to hug him or kiss his cheek.

That throws Raylan off, and he’s more abrupt than he intends. “Hey. What’re you drinking?”

“White wine.” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and looks everywhere but at him.

Raylan gets the bartender’s attention. Neither one of them suggests moving to a table or ordering food.

“I thought it would be nice to catch up,” Winona says.

“Well,” Raylan says, swirling the ice in his drink, “I already know about the big house, and the fancy new husband. The white wine is new. And I’m sure you know all the courthouse gossip about me already, which is probably 75 percent true.”

“You sound about the same,” Winona says, and finds a grudging smile.

“I’ve got a little more gray, “ Raylan says. “And I’m no longer the most trigger happy guy in the office.”

Winona turns the wine glass around on its base. “Is it true you’re sleeping with that woman from Harlan, the one who shot her husband? It sounds like you.”

“Not anymore,” Raylan says.

The silence stretches. They drink, and Winona plays with the wine glass.

“Well, this was fun.” Raylan doesn’t know what he wanted to get out of this meeting.

“Raylan, wait. I need your help. Well, Gary does. I wouldn’t ask for myself.”

“I ain’t in the business of helping Gary.” Raylan puts his glass down for emphasis.

“You owe us - you owe him - for that stunt you pulled. Breaking into the house.”

“It was hardly breaking in. A toddler could have broken the lock on that door.” That was a boneheaded move, he agrees, with the perspective of distance, but he’ll never admit it to her.

“Raylan, I’m not here to banter.”

“So what is it? I can’t do anything about parking tickets.”

“Gary’s gotten in with some bad people. He bought this land to develop, and now they want all their money -”

“Wait a minute. You want me to get Gary out from under some loan shark?” Raylan is pissed. She’s always done this Raylan, save me shit: flat tire; bad cellphone contract; I hear a noise, when are you coming home?

“Not a loan shark. An investor,” she says, stung.

“Look, if it’s legit, it should be all laid out in a contract. If Gary can’t make payments there’s nothing I can do. People are losing their shirts all over.”

“This guy - Emmett Arnett - is shady, Raylan.” She drops her voice. “One of his men was waiting for me, the other day, inside our house.”

Raylan keeps his hand off his gun, but it’s a near thing. “Shit. What’d he do?”

“Nothing. It felt threatening, but nothing direct. Told me he was a security contractor. Creepy guy.”

“He didn’t say anything about money? Nothing like that?”

“Nothing I can take to the police. He said Gary gave him access to the house, so he could ‘assess our security needs’. And Gary knew the guy when I mentioned him,” says Winona, mouth twisting. “Thing is, he knew where I worked. He’d called and checked up on my schedule. He knew I’d be home early.”

Raylan rolls ice over his tongue, and swallows. The melting cold is uncomfortable in his throat, a little too big. “Alright. I’ll check on those names. What were they again?”

“Emmett Arnett and Wynn Duffy. Duffy gave me his card.”

“Just a quick look. I’m not going to lean on them or nothing.”

“Thank you, Raylan. Thank you.”

He really shouldn’t. It’s actually illegal for him to run checks for a civilian. He can just about cover his ass, if he has to - Winona’s job as a court reporter working on federal cases, close to federal judges, could leave her vulnerable to threats, or, for that matter, susceptible to bribes - but he really should make it official.

“I’ll call you.” Raylan drops a twenty on the bar and drains his glass.

Winona pushes the twenty back to him. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I asked you, remember? And you’re helping me out.”

Raylan shakes his head. He doesn't want to be beholden to her, not the tiniest bit. “If you see that Duffy guy again, call the police. Good night.”

 

The next morning, Art gives Raylan a suspicious look when he walks in about thirty minutes before anyone ever sees him. He even remembered to stop for coffee for the office. Art takes his without saying anything, but he does have that inquiring, _what the hell are you up to_ air that Raylan is so familiar with. Luckily, Raylan is highly skilled at ignoring that particular facial expression, and just drops off Art’s coffee with a _there you go_ and gets away with it.

He gives Bubba a glance before he sits down at his desk, sees the blue fish hanging around at the surface. Right, breakfast. Bubba vacuums up the pellets he drops in as he’s booting up his computer, then hangs around on the side of the pickle jar nearest Raylan, as if he likes him. Angling for more food, probably.

Raylan goes back to his desk, and boots up his computer. He reads through his email - nothing to get excited about - before running the names Winona gave him.

Nothing, not even parking tickets. He tries different spellings, but nothing comes up.

Well, fuck. Winona’s pretty savvy. If she says these guys are shady, they are. Of course, there’s criminal-shady, and legal-shady. Lots of ways to take advantage of folks without breaking the law. He would dismiss the whole thing as a bad business decision if it weren’t for Duffy waiting in the house for Winona.

Raylan steps on his first impulse, to light out of the office and talk to Duffy. Not his business.

Still. He does kind of owe Gary. Gary and Winona both. They could have definitely made trouble for him over that stupid ass stunt.

But.

There’s not much he can do without becoming her dog, again. Getting entangled with Winona is no part of his plan for the future, and he doesn’t see an end to this that doesn’t reel him back into her orbit.

Shit. He doesn’t know if he should take this to Art, or sit on it. He wonders what Tim would think; he’d without doubt run it by Tim if he were here. He pulls at that thread, wonders when Tim became so essential to his day to day, but a glimpse of Duffy’s business card on his desk cuts that thought off.

One dilemma at a time, and Winona’s is easier to deal with.

Everything in him is screaming to *do* something.

Raylan grabs his hat and shrugs his coat on. Part of his job is keeping tabs on Boyd and the criminal doings that spring up in his wake. For once, heading to Harlan is more likely to keep him out of trouble, than to start some.

The three hour trip gives him plenty of time to think. Exactly what he doesn’t want,  
because he doesn’t want to think about Winona, and he doesn’t want to think about Tim; somehow the two are linked in his mind, and not just in the category of: people I have seen naked and had orgasms with. One is complicated in a bad way, and one is complicated in a good way, and his brain fucking hurts. He’s got to get his head onto something else.

He opens the glove box as he gets onto I-75 and pulls out his CD stash. He’s got a couple new audiobooks from the library; he’s been looking forward to the new Robert Crais. He fumbles the first CD out of the library case but he hesitates before he slides it home. The main character is an ex-Army Ranger, like Tim, and nope. Nope, nope, nope. He reaches blindly for another CD. A John Sandford book comes on. Perfect.

Boyd and company are where they should be, about a dozen guys in the camp, puttering around, shooting the shit - nothing that looks real churchy, though to be fair, Raylan’s not sure what that would look like. Pews and Bibles and bowed heads? Something like that. Raylan wonders what it is they do all day, and makes a mental note to talk to local law enforcement, and ask them to keep an eye out. Any local law enforcement that’s still speaking to him, that is, after the Sheriff Mosely arrest.

Raylan sighs. Nothing is simple in Harlan. Not a goddamned thing.

Boyd comes to to meet him, smiling like they’re friends. “Raylan. Welcome back to the Church of the Last Chance Salvation.”

“Boyd.” Raylan tips his hat back and surveys the camp. It’s never a good idea to let Boyd rush you. “What do you fellas get up all day? Sit around the fire and wait for your halos to appear?”

Boyd looks where Raylan’s looking. “Study the good book, keep the camp tidy, bring in firewood, and forage for food.”

“Beg, you mean,” says Raylan, needling.

“I’m afraid our activities pamphlet is still at the printers. Raylan, if you're thinking of joining us. But I am sure a schedule can be tailored to your needs.” Boyd gestures at the encampment. “We lead a simple life. What you see is what you get.”

“You've never been that transparent, Boyd.”

“I suppose your view of me is the wages of my past behavior. But I am a different man now, even though my old self follows me like a ghost.” He sounds sincere. Like he isn’t selling anything.

Raylan’s brain doesn’t buy it, though some other part of him wants to. For ill and good, Boyd is an old friend, one of the two or three people who knows him through and through, and some treacherous voice in his head wants to keep thinking of him as an ally.

Maybe one day he’ll be able to trust Boyd again, if he stays on this path, with his preaching and all. If he could really transform himself, that would be something to admire. “How do you do it, then? Change everything about yourself and everything that people know you are?”

How do you do it and get away with it? That’s what he’s getting at.

Boyd doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice holds none of the playfulness of earlier. “You just do it. And hold on tight to what’s important. Because, son, folks will try to rip it away from you. And you got to be prepared to grip tight.”

Raylan has nothing to say to that.

“It hurts either way,” Boyd says, possibly to himself.

Raylan nods, without meaning to.

Boyd, quick as a snake, catches it. “Is there something you are looking to change, Raylan? You know if I can help you, I will.”

The thing is, Raylan does know that. Dangerous, though. Letting Body be privy to his most private conundrums, no matter his good intentions, will not end well.

Boyd can’t change who is is, down deep, no matter how law abiding he becomes, and his urge to get on top of a situation, and turn it to his advantage, isn’t going anywhere.

“I believe you mean that,” is the nicest thing Raylan can say, and works to sell the lie that comes out next. “But I think I’m fine just how I am.”

“I will pray for you, Raylan.”

“You do that.” Raylan resettles his hat. He’s not here for this. “Spend any time with your Daddy, lately, Boyd?”

 

Tim calls late that afternoon as Raylan pulls into a spot outside the federal courthouse.

“Hey.” Raylan settles back in the seat.

“Hey. I got a call on that counterfeiter. Hogan.” Tim turns from the phone and talks to someone else for a minute, then comes back on. “Sorry. The Mounties here don’t seem very organized.”

“That’s so unlike them.”

“Yeah. Anyway. Hogan’s ex-girlfriend called. He’s sucking around for money. Maybe you could go over there if you aren’t too busy.”

“Yeah. Sure. File’s on your desk?”

“Yep.”

“You want to get food or something when you get in?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll text you. And don’t forget about Hogan.”

“Sure thing. Get right on it.” And Raylan realizes he doesn’t need Tim’s input on his Winona dilemma.

When he comes right down to it, he’d rather help Tim than Winona. If she were in imminent danger, he’d think different - Raylan isn’t a complete asshole - but if it’s not right this minute urgent, he’d rather lend his efforts to Tim.

Really, it’s not a decision at all. He heads up to the office, feels lighter.

Art waves him in when Raylan taps on his doorframe, and Raylan explains the Hawkins vs. Duffy situation.

“You think he was trying to get at Winona?”

“It sounds like he was sending a message to Gary. But it doesn’t feel right, Art.” Raylan shrugs, troubled by something he can’t define. “Neither of these guys have records. That could be because they’re clean. Or because they're good at leverage.”

“A twofer,” Art says, with forced cheer. “Alright. I’ll put Rachel on it. Not you.” He points at Raylan.

Raylan puts his hands up in the face of Art’s pointing finger. “I got other stuff to do. Got it.”

“Raylan if you push into this, that will be a problem between you and me.” Art leans back in his chair. “Have you considered someone might be trying to get at you through Winona? You’ve got enemies.”

“Pretty indirect for Gio. And Boyd got religion and forgave me, haven’t you heard?”

“So those are the only people you’ve ever pissed off?”

“Oh. Those people.”

“Yeah. Those people.”

“Could be. Most of ‘em aren’t real subtle thinkers, though.”

“Well, watch your back.”

“I always do. And right now, I gotta go talk to a pissed off girlfriend.”

“What case?”

“Hogan. The counterfeiter.”

“That’s Tim’s case.”

“Yep. She called him, he called me, I show up on her doorstep.”

“You listen to him more than you listen to me,” Art says.

“Only because he asked nicely.”

“Go on. See the pissed off girlfriend. And don’t sleep with her.” Art waves a hand, shooing him out. “Send Rachel in.”

Hogan’s girlfriend is helpful. There’s a small reward, so that could be why, but human nature is equally useful in Raylan’s line of work. He doesn't bring Hogan in, but he’s pretty sure they’ll get him tomorrow. That takes up all of half an hour, round trip, but well worth it. He’s whistling under his breath as he gets back to his desk. He’s made progress on a case, put Winona’s troubles behind him, and Tim will be back tonight. The day is ending much better than it started.

Bubba’s jar now boasts a plastic, old fashioned deep sea diver next to the pink sandcastle.

“That fish isn’t going to have any room to swim if you keep getting him presents,” Raylan says, as Art walks by.

“How do you know it’s me and not Rachel?”

“Because I would have gotten him a treasure chest and a mermaid.” Rachel stops in front of Raylan’s desk, and waves a folder at him. “I talked to Winona.”

“Is she pissed?”

“She is.” Rachel’s expression doesn’t change; she’s used to people being pissed at her, in this job. “She gave me a statement. I told her we’d keep it under wraps for now. What do you know about the husband?”

“Well, she fucked him while she was still married to me, so I guess I’m not real impartial.”

“So he’s a smooth talker, then?” Rachel’s mouth twitches up, just at the corner.

“Shut up. Or wait, thanks?”

“Gary Hawkins, Raylan.”

“Wheeler dealer. Thinks he can talk his way out of anything. Lots of bluster.”

“Any chance that he’ll flip?”

“To save his own ass from jail? Absolutely. Doubt he’s in deep enough to know anything, though. He most likely thinks it’s a legit business deal with some pushy people. Why?”

“There’s something strange about these guys. I ran those names by a contact at the FBI in DC and I’m getting radio silence. I usually get a definite yes or no, on whether there’s an investigation, at least. Instead he keeps promising to get back to me.”

“Weird. Doesn’t Tim know one of the local Feebs?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe he can scare something up.”

“I’ll ask him. So do you think Gary would wear a wire, if it comes to that?”

“He maybe could get his guts up with the right encouragement. Tell him he’s doing it for Winona, that would probably work.”

 

When Raylan leaves the office, he doesn’t go straight back to his room. He gets in the car and cruises through his old college haunts. A couple bars, and diners, still full of students. The dingy gay bar where he’d had some furtive encounters with other closeted fellows, an old brown brick building down a dim and potholed street, is no longer open, but that ain’t exactly a tragedy; it was a pretty sad place.

He stops along the one strip of student focused businesses, different shops than in his time, but offering roughly the same stuff, and gets out to walk, stepping into a music store to rifle through stacks of vinyl. For a minute he fiercely misses his own place in Miami, turntable and high end CD player and carefully selected and arranged speaker array.

He’s beginning to suspect that this Kentucky sojourn won’t end anytime soon. He’s going to need to make some decisions, and not just about his sound system.

He figures he’s filled his dilemma quota for the day, though, so sets the question aside for another time.

As he’s flipping through a stack of Nick Cave albums, he gets a text from Tim: Just landed at BG.

Raylan texted back: Want to come over to my place?

Tim: How about you meet me at Tin House for the UK game and some food? About an hour?

Raylan agrees, and goes up to the counter with a stack of six albums and three cassettes, though he has nothing to play them on, here in Kentucky.

 

The door of the bar swings shut behind Raylan and Tim, and Raylan stops as Tim steps to the side and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Tim shakes a stick out and flicks open the silver lighter, his thumb passing over the worn engraving as he lights up.

“What is that, a family heirloom”?” Raylan raises a brow.

“Shit, no. Bought it at a pawn shop when I was 17. Got tired of having to buy the disposables. Plus I thought it made me look cool.” Tim flips the silver lighter shut. He’s standing downwind. Raylan hates getting a face full of smoke, and Tim always seems to remember.

Raylan breaths the cold air deep. Must really be getting on toward winter - the air is clear enough he can see a few stars.

“So I was going to ask you over,” Tim says, after a long drag, “but I think I’m just going to go home and fall on my face.”

Raylan’s a little disappointed, but he isn’t surprised. Tim’s been flagging for the last hour, once he’d got food in him and a few beers, and UK was kicking so much ass, the game hadn’t been remotely competitive. Tim likes the close games the best. “You okay to drive?”

“Nah, I’m good. I only had like, four beers. I was thinking, though. Maybe you could plan on spending the weekend at my place. This weekend.” Tim’s a little nervous. There’s that tongue flicker, a quick dart over his lower lip.

Raylan fights the immediate refusal: that’s too involved. We don’t do that. I’m not your goddamned boyfriend.

Feels like maybe.

Raylan’s damn tired of saying no. Tired of his anonymous motel bed and take out and pretending like having Tim around doesn’t light him up every time the man walks through the door.

He can do that, spend a weekend. Little plans are okay: this week. Three days from now.

Not yet next month, or even a two weeks from now, but deciding shit seven days or less ahead of time doesn’t mean anything. That’s just being organized.

So Raylan says, “Okay.”

“Maybe come over after work Friday?” A gentle push from Tim.

“Sounds good. I’ll make dinner. Spaghetti okay?”

“Sure. Spaghetti’s perfect. Maybe we can barbecue Saturday night. I’ve only used the grill once.” Tim’s new place includes a side patio, and he had immediately furnished it with a gas grill and a couple of chairs when he moved in last week.

“Steak and potatoes?”

Off a deep drag, Tim says, “Whatever you want.”

Tim cuts the sentence off, there, and there’s a word missing, but Raylan isn’t quite sure what. Decides not to worry about it, because Tim is smiling.

“My bed is calling me. See you tomorrow?” Tim grinds the cigarette out on the sidewalk, and tosses the butt in a trashcan.

“I’ll walk you to the truck.”  
The side street is dark and unoccupied. Before he can stop himself, Raylan presses Tim into the driver’s side door of the truck, hands on his hips, and steals a slow, warm kiss, while Tim’s hands worm under his jacket.

“Get of here,” Tim says against his mouth, as they part. “Or I’m going to change my mind about tonight.”

“Go home,” Raylan says. Tim steals another kiss, quick and hard, and turns away.

Raylan watches him get in the truck, and goes off to find the Lincoln as soon as Tim’s belted in and pulling away.

Friday.

Okay. He has to be honest with himself. There’s something between them, and it ain’t just sex. He’s more than a bit terrified.

But Raylan’s never had a problem with getting his guts up when there’s a gun on him, or a fist headed at his face.

Maybe he’s become too careful of his own heart, since the divorce.

Fuck it.

For Tim?

Raylan is beginning to think he’ll take every damn risk in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had intended to get this posted in November, but I lost my beloved old cat in the early hours of Thanksgiving, and I haven't had the heart to do much writing. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this installment.


End file.
